Before you go... //h.s

Sleepless in Seattle

Entering the back room, I gave Harry a gentle greeting, somewhere between a smile and a grimace – were we close enough for me to call him Harry rather than Harry Styles now? I wasn't sure. But that wasn't the point right now. I needed to focus, and I needed to stop getting distracted constantly it sounded funny but it was actually becoming an issue.

Just yesterday morning, I'd bumped into a business man in central park because I was distracted – a suited, professional, scowling man no doubt on the way to a job he hated but just about paid the bills – and it had just been so embarrassing. Nothing especially bad had happened, but I'd got nervous, I just couldn't cope with situations like that... and there I went again, getting distracted and forgetting about the task at hand. I absolutely needed to stop that.

'So...' he started, but then paused. It wasn't a long pause, but I could tell he was frustrated with himself for not knowing what to say, probably mentally beating himself up. It didn't feel like a big deal to me though, it was almost comforting to know that even someone like him could forgot the words.

'The back entrance,' I prompted him kindly. He followed me out the back door, much shabbier than the front. Ash would be embarrassed that anyone was seeing it with the peeling paint, graffiti and smelly alley. I could vividly picture he flipping a hand forward and exaggeratedly apologising. It seemed normal to me, after all I walked through it into Split Bean every morning and every evening, but it suddenly occurred to me that Harry might be shocked, especially considered the plushness and comfort of the lifestyle he no doubt had.

'Sorry, I know the back of our café's in complete shambles,' I told him, biting my lip embarrassed. He simply smiled gently, the cause unknown to me.

'It's been so long since I heard someone say anything that British...' he spoke out, 'in fact, it's also been a while since anyone apologised to me. You know I'm not a person to most people, I'm just a figure. Someone they can hug and talk to and take photos with, but not someone with feelings and thoughts,' he explained openly. Once again, he looked at the floor, seeming upset with himself – maybe for opening up to a nearly stranger? I couldn't quite tell what he was worried by, he was hard to read.

The years of paparazzi, interviews and constant analysing must have forced him to need to be able to hide himself. Hide behind a smile and pretend everything was fine so that he didn't have to open up and tell the world his private secrets. The interviewers were vicious, like hawks, poking and prying for the smallest piece of gossip that they forcefully pulled from the unwilling giver. I understood why he needed to be able to hide his emotions, but it was slightly disconcerting, I couldn't read his emotions, how he was feeling...

I'd told him the way to get out of the winding back alleys and into central park whilst avoiding the paps, he'd thanked me gracefully and taken a few steps in the direction I'd pointed out when he slowly turned back to me. I raised an eyebrow, wondering what he needed.

'Hey iris...' he began slowly, as if he was unsure, or maybe nervous, 'do you want to maybe hang out sometime?'

The world stopped turning. All the New Yorkers froze, mid-step. All the bird's wings froze, mid-flight. My heart stopped in my chest, mid-beat. What did he just say?

Then the world began to turn again, slowly, ever so slowly as though it was afraid of turning the wrong way, but everything began to move, and my brain finally processed what he'd just said. He'd asked me to hang out with him. Bloody hell. What was I supposed to say in response?

'That would be great!' no, no Iris, that's too enthusiastic, 'I mean, um sure, d'you want my number?' he smiled, looking relived and held out his phone to me so I could type my number in.